Heaven smiles above me; what a gift here below.
Afternoon in Dekalb. Hot, sticky, still. Today. I stand waiting for fall to come, but it does not. So I light a cigarette and walk into the music store. It is unnaturally dark and something new from Weezer is booming out of the speakers hidden up above the racks. I step up to the counter, look up at the proprietor of the establishment. The counter sits on a raised dias, making whomever standing behind it appear to be seven or eight feet tall. The clerk stares down at me like some dispossessed judge. He is balding, but what hair he has is long and hangs down to his shoulders. He strokes his mustachio and shifts his position like he's uncomfortable.
Briefly, I wonder why he would be listening to Weezer. He does not seem the Weezer type; rather he seems the type that would blast classic rock and ride down the interstate on his motorcycle, wisps of hair and mustachio flying back in the wind. Screaming a shout to declare his defiance of the standards of age.
"Can I help you," he asks.
Yes, I was wondering if you were hiring?
"No. No, we're not hiring. Who told you we were?" His voice sounds slightly strung out.
I, uh, well, I just thought you might. Like, I just came in here on a whim, you know. I have experience in music resale. Sort of. Well, I worked under the table.
"Under the table?" He pulls on part of his mustache.
You know, like, I didn't have to take taxes out of my money. I just got paid every day.
"That's illegal."
Yeah, I know.
"Well, we're not hiring anyway."
Right, okay. Oh! Does Emily still work here? I say this so as to acquire some form of reference. I met Emily in my English 201 class the first semester I attended Northern Illinois University. She was nice. Very indie-alternative. Almost stereotypically so. That was the thing about all the subculturites of Northern, everyone was so stereotypically what they were. Goths were quite obviously goth. When they were around, you could almost feel the sorrow. Or just see it, expressed in their bad makeup and dark clothing of darkest darkness. Punks were so punk you felt offended just by how punk they were. And emo kids, well... let's not talk about emo.
"No, she quit about six months ago."
Yeah, all right. I leave and walk across the campus, heading towards the computer lab. I need a second job, wherever it might be. I think about setting up a savings account so I can place money into it for Eain's future education. Campus is empty. I smoke a cigarette and watch a tree. This is why people generally avoided me, save a few. "Because you're so fucking weird," said Adam, a now alumni.
I realize that I miss my old friends from Northern. Strange.
Briefly, I wonder why he would be listening to Weezer. He does not seem the Weezer type; rather he seems the type that would blast classic rock and ride down the interstate on his motorcycle, wisps of hair and mustachio flying back in the wind. Screaming a shout to declare his defiance of the standards of age.
"Can I help you," he asks.
Yes, I was wondering if you were hiring?
"No. No, we're not hiring. Who told you we were?" His voice sounds slightly strung out.
I, uh, well, I just thought you might. Like, I just came in here on a whim, you know. I have experience in music resale. Sort of. Well, I worked under the table.
"Under the table?" He pulls on part of his mustache.
You know, like, I didn't have to take taxes out of my money. I just got paid every day.
"That's illegal."
Yeah, I know.
"Well, we're not hiring anyway."
Right, okay. Oh! Does Emily still work here? I say this so as to acquire some form of reference. I met Emily in my English 201 class the first semester I attended Northern Illinois University. She was nice. Very indie-alternative. Almost stereotypically so. That was the thing about all the subculturites of Northern, everyone was so stereotypically what they were. Goths were quite obviously goth. When they were around, you could almost feel the sorrow. Or just see it, expressed in their bad makeup and dark clothing of darkest darkness. Punks were so punk you felt offended just by how punk they were. And emo kids, well... let's not talk about emo.
"No, she quit about six months ago."
Yeah, all right. I leave and walk across the campus, heading towards the computer lab. I need a second job, wherever it might be. I think about setting up a savings account so I can place money into it for Eain's future education. Campus is empty. I smoke a cigarette and watch a tree. This is why people generally avoided me, save a few. "Because you're so fucking weird," said Adam, a now alumni.
I realize that I miss my old friends from Northern. Strange.